Ash Can Reform
by VaRuka
Summary: Ch. 8 Up. AU; Buffy's life is dangerous. Each night she waits on those L.A. corners. Waiting for anyone and everyone to be her next customer. She can not go on like this forever. It has to change.
1. Ugly Reflections

Ash Can Reform

  
  


Author: VaRuka

Author's Note: This is a WIP. WORK IN PROGRESS! Will soon finish.  
Disclaimer: I like to play with these "Barbies", and these "Dream Houses" . . . they've become a habit. They're so goddamn addictive . . .   
Rating: R . . . ish? Yup.  
Feedback: Do you really need to know the answer? Just, take, a, guess!  
Summary: AU; Buffy's life is dangerous. Each night she waits on those L.A. corners. Waiting for anyone and everyone to be her next customer. Then she comes home to clean them all away. She can not go on like this forever. It has to change. Spike better make it change.

  
  
  
  


Unexpected consequence. That is what this all is. Being a College drop out that I am, a no job skilled woman of the now, a passed around orphan, a social reject, a taker of hands, and most of fucking all, I'm blonde. That's what has gotten me here. Standing on this corner. So cliche, I know. But as I was saying, standing on this filthy L.A. corner, flaunting almost every piece of flesh over my bones, just to pay for what I need. Oh, like my apartment. 

Not that I hate my work. Fuck. I hate my work. Hate it with a passion. This is not what I had in mind when I was proudly handed my high school diploma. I was thinking along the lines of an artist. In my mind swirled images of art schools and magnificent paintings with my signature scrawled at the bottom. And of course hard earned money. 

I can't really say this money isn't hard earned . . . but painting and drawing, running an art gallery, show casing at art galleries for money, seems just a little more innocent and just a tad bit less degrading. It doesn't simply seem, it is. Coming from a High School where we were all pumped up to join the big wide world and do something monumental, I feel as if I let my teachers down, myself included. 

Okay, okay, I was not the best student. Missing a few classes for a little sex-fest with my latest boyfriend, causing some mischief with my big gang of friends . . . well . . . could have all been postponed till school was out. I tried, though. I truly gave my all when I was in class. Outside of class I tried to get everything. And look where that I got me. On a corner.

High School ended with a whirl wind of parties after parties. We were all celebrating our freedom, our independence. The bonds that shackled me to my foster parents (at the time, for I was always being brought back and sent to another family) were unfastened. By law I was allowed to be like an adult . . . not like I wasn't already flouncing around like one. Drinking. Swearing. Fucking. Stealing. Smoking (once or twice). Being wild. 

Wild was fun. Still is.

But I have a hate for the kind of wild I have to perform for men every night. This type of wild, this job, this monstrosity and perversion of sex for money is not the kind of wild I thought my adult life would be constructed of. 

Everything spiraled miles down hill after graduation. Me being me, I stupidly chose to go out with Angel. Notorious for contradicting his name. He asked for my hand. With a glance at his intense brown eyes apprehension was thrown to the sharks and I took it. Unknownly, I also threw myself to the sharks. Remember. I. Did. Not. Know. Forever, forever, forever, regret from the action will slowly nibble and chew away at my insides. Only I know of my regret. If it was ever spoken to the outside world . . . Angel will make his punishment hurt like a sharp blow to the gut.

Honestly, if it wasn't Angel, it would have been someone or something else that would have brought me here. I chalk it up to all the reasons I named in the beginning, and then some.

Damn Angel. Damn him to the darkest, scariest, hurtful place in hell. Damn his allure that yanked me to him. Damn those promises he whispered in my ear. Ultimately, damn my upbringing that built up the way I am today. Damn it all. He is the cause of all my trouble.

Alright, half is his fault. 

I took his hand, he dug me ten levels deeper into the night world. The world of drugs, whores, money, blood, sex, and mistrust. Ugh.

If I didn't take that hand I wouldn't be in this position in life. So the other half is my fault. I relished acting like an adult at such a young and tender age, even if I was one legally. The problem was that I did not think like an adult. My mind did not analyze. Going with the flow looked to much better. The consequences were not grasped. They just appeared to be so, so far off in the distance. 

The wind whips away the sigh of longing from my lips into the warm late Spring air. It could have been different. Why do I have to be the way that I am? Why do I make the fool hearted choices that I make? Someone should have warned me. Someone should have promptly explained the road I was following and how it would not result in my liking. Yeah, that someone should have been me.

Now night after night, I stand on these unholy corners. Other women . . . like me . . . doing the same exact thing near or right beside me. Cars rolling up with passengers that, in any other situation, I would give them the finger and stroll proudly away. I am so ashamed. And that my friends, is the understatement of the year. If only I could escape this way of life. Scrap up my pieces from the dirty gutter and move on with my head held confidently high.

Sometimes I dream about the alternate path I should have made myself take. Those dreams leave me crying. Leave me not wanting to go to work that late night. Leave me weak from wishing. Leave me with the hard reality slamming down on me about my life. This is what my sweat drenched nights are filled. Dreams. Horrible dreams of the "if only" types. Even when I have a customer pounding like the horny man he is, those dreams still occur. Even with closed eyes or opened eyes, those dreams still occur.

My apartment is nice and spacious. My roommate, Willow, is the closest thing to a best friend I have since High School. She's a bonafide freelance hacker. Retrieving secrets, codes, information, and whatever else you could get through a computer is her specialty. A great friend to have. A great person to hold you in the wee hours of the morning when you come rushing home with some man's cum dripping down from your thighs and you don't even know his name. Gotta love, red headed Willow.

Other than Willow there is Xander. He comes in handy as a close friend. Always there to stick up for me in front of Angel and anyone else that challenges me. That's good ol' Xander. There when you need him. A strong shoulder to weep upon. A witty retort to fling right back at you. A second in command for non other than my pimp Angel! I visible cringe. One of my best friends works for the person I hate with a consuming passion. Isn't that just grand?

Wait. It gets worse. 

Half my money I make goes to Angel. So all the money I make night after night gets chopped in half, and flung back at me. 

Wait. It gets a shit load worse. 

If I ever ran away from this life. Ran so far away with no looking back. Fled far from this city. It would never be far enough. Angel would sniff me out like the dog he is. Direct his underground army in legions to find his favorite and most precious whore. For Angel loves me. He would be broken and bursting with tears if I was ever to be out of his clutches. Angel's love may be twisted, warped, and fucked up past the tenth degree, but it is still a type of love. And because he is so smitten with me, he would do whatever was available to him to retrieve me. That is just hurl worthy.

He owns me.

From my cascading waterfall of straight blond hair, brilliant hazel eyes, pouty pink lips, and well, the whole tanned package. I never believed another person could own another person, but Angel has made me start to believe. 

It is so beyond sick. And horribly degrading. He gives new meaning to dirty bastard. This whole situation is horribly unchecked. No one has dared to put Angel in his place. They hate. They discriminate. But they do not take a stand to stop Angel. To cancel him out of the whole equation. Yes, he does have loyal people around him. Some. Only some. Just kill those off with him and the rest of the world will be so much better. He won't own me. He won't own the other girls. He will be gone. No more damage he could perform to our already battered self images, lives, and bodies. The end. Over. 

I would hop onto the nearest train to China. Get my ass out of Dixie. Restart my life and pursue the ability to stand on my own two feet again. But not until Angel is dead. Not until then. I am to scared. I know he would discover me if I left now. He would discover me, yank me back, and make me pay for leaving his lovely side. That would not be pleasant. It would make this life look like a multiple orgasm. That's oooooookay. I'll bide my time. Seek comfort from my friends. Hold my feelings aloft. Wear the facade of Angel's best whore.

A car lazily rolls up. The window slides down. The unknown man of the night smiles. Time to work, Buffy.


	2. The Broken Dream

The Broken Dream   
  
Creeping up the steps to my second floor apartment I am filled with tension. Willow will be worried. Always she thinks that one of my customers will fuck me then fillet me like a fish. A little worry wart. She is probably out on the sofa, dozing uncomfortably, lines of anxiety etched across her milk white skin, fiery red hair splashed across her face, and emerald eyes moving around under the eyelids. I wonder if it's a good dream or bad dream this time.  
  
I slowly push the door open, dropping my keys on the hook. The apartment is tranquil. Only our Scooby Doo clock with its soft ticks, unchecked drip drops falling in a soothing rhythm from an unknown faucet sink, and the barely audible rustle of the curtains as the open window lets in a cool breeze are the only sounds. And with all my will I intend to keep it that way. No reason to wake up Willow who has an appointment tomorrow with a client. No reason at all to wake up the poor girl.  
  
Silently, with extreme caution, my feet tip toe past the arc walkway to the quaint living room where sleeping Willow resides upon the couch. Must be crafty. Real. Crafty. And silent. Must not forget the whole me being silent part. Trudging on, the irritating stickiness between my thighs becomes all to annoying, making it harder to glide across the floor. I rub them together. Nope. Still there. What a hideous reminder of my nightly activities.   
  
I am utterly moments away from my destination-the bathroom. Then the most ridiculous thing happens. My hard earned green paper money diligently forked over from that sleazy man that Angel took his share from just minutes ago slips from my bra, flutters down my displayed stomach, and descends like a leaf from a tree to the floor in nothing but a whisper. I freeze in my tracks. Did she hear that? She is Willow. Willow is observant . . .   
  
"Buffy?" A muffled, tiresome voice questions.  
  
. . . even in sleep.  
  
"Yeah?" I softly reply.  
  
"I had a bad dream."  
  
As if those words are my cue, my body flings itself into Willow's waiting arms. We contently cuddle, situating ourselves comfortably on the couch, regulating our breathing to match each other's. This moment is captured within my mind as our tears roll and splash somewhere to be forgotten because of pride. She calmly smoothes back my hair, a silent gesture evoking so much. In return I snuggle closer. I bet if anyone else saw they would think we were lesbian lovers.  
  
As if.   
  
I am not lesbian. Willow is. But it's cool. Willow has a supportive and extra, way, really, nice girlfriend named Tara. Tara makes Willow feel complete. Every other night I might accompany Willow to Tara's club, Miss Kitty Fantastico, which by the way, they named after Tara's kitten, and watch their sparks fly. They're both so lucky to have each other. Lucky and happy. They're my addictive light at the end of my gloomy tunnel. My thread to the thought that happiness, true love, and all those good things really exist, thrive, out there in this big bad world. One day, hopefully, I'll reach my light, just as those two have officially reached theirs.  
  
Willow cracks the silence, and instantly I know she is revealing the freaky deeds of her dream. "You cried so hard. These sobs of gratitude and sorrow. He laid there. Still. Still as rock hard stone. But you weren't crying for him. You were crying for this sleek silver panther. It ran away after slicing into the man. After bleeding the man's power into puddles for you to lap upon. And you did just that." Willow shudders. "Lapped it up through your thick torrents of tears.   
  
"Your pain was mixed with pleasure. The blood was filling you. Making you whole once again. But still you cried for that panther. That sleek silver panther." Her hands clutch and securely holds me. "Then a circle of shadows befell you, scaring you, warming you, sucking you into them. And you went without protest. Racing forward right as the shadows were swirling you down a bottomless hole was the panther. It never left you. You just left it. That was as far I got before you woke me up.  
  
"Buffy, Buffy, Buffy, it was disgusting." What in the world could her wacky dream mean? "The noises. Your slurping of the blood. Only the panther seemed to shine. It was beautiful. You were dying, as you were living." Her grim tone lightens a bit, becoming a tiny bit playful and demanding. "It was one of those dreams that calls for ice cream when you wake up."  
  
I nuzzle her hair, breathing in her unique scent with a relaxed smile on my face. "You want some ice cream?"   
  
Her answer is late and drawn out. "No. I want to hear about Buffy's night, first."  
  
I cringe against Willow. I knew she was going to ask this if she awoke. I just knew it. I only wanted to shower quick and thoroughly, effectively divesting myself of the memory of tonight's customer. And when that was done, hop into bed, grasp Mr. Gordo, and dream of dreams full of sunshine, canvases, and nachos. Shoving away any thoughts of reality until my eyelids crack open to face a new day. For that means back to business. The alleys. The corners. The dark motel rooms.   
  
"You know how it is . . . same old, same old." I try to lace some casualty around the words, only to fail terribly.   
  
"He did wear a condom?" Her question is such a pitiful plea of concern.  
  
I slowly but surely nod. A sigh of relief escapes her mouth. Good, Willow is happy. Now we can eat ice cream. Still, I hesitate.   
  
"Willow, I'm gonna go take a five minute shower. You make our bowls." A small smile touches my lips. "Make me Cookies an' Cream."  
  
I slither out of our embrace, rushing to the bathroom, along the way snatching up my money and depositing it in my room where I grab my towel. Pealing off the hooker clothes I donned earlier in such haste and with so much distaste I almost move to the toilet and puke. Not expressing that I don't like the clothes. Nah. Just expressing the dislike I have for the usage of the clothes. The soap cleanses the outside of my body. Wiping away the scent and touches of the anonymous man. Oh, but the inside is sore and still quakes with the aftereffects of our fucking.   
  
Scrubbing and scrubbing to feel clean. Scrubbing to feel pure. Rinsing and rinsing to wash it all down the drain. Bye. Bye. You will never be missed.   
  
Feeling refreshed and clear-headed I throw on a tank and some sweats. I meet Willow out in the dimly lit kitchen, two bowls of ice cream with all the works waiting for us to chow down. The girl talk flows back and forth concerning our days, thoughts, and guesses about Willow's dream. An hour is spent in our cozy kitchen. If only this pictured was what it really seemed. Just two girls eating ice cream while chatting away. Not an illegal computer hacker. Not a prostitute. Just two normal girls.  
  
We reluctantly retire to bed as the lateness, leads on to more lateness. As soon as my head graces the plush pillow the vow I make every night is mentally uttered. Forget tonight. Forget the night. And one day you won't have to forget anymore. 


	3. Preparing for War

Preparing for War  
  
Groaning with hatred for all phones, I un-snuggle from my covers, and claw at the loud device resting on its base beside the bed. My hand harshly snatches it up, and finally, the insistent ringing ceases. The thought sends relief flooding through my tired system until it frizzles and sparks, close to gliding back into the languid, lazy feelings from the aftereffects of sleep upon a newly risen body.   
  
Damn phone. Stupid ringing noise. Why can't phones just blink! Poke! Or something without resulting to using loud obnoxious ringing sounds! Another unsolved mystery to sit collecting dust.  
  
The person who has called at such an hour gets their chance to speak and me to listen as I not to gently place the phone under my ear. Come on, it's . . . I sneak a peek at the clock . . . 2 p.m.! I do not usually get up till 4 p.m. This whole day I am going to have a booming headache from my sleeping pattern being disrupted. This better be worth my time.  
  
"Hello?" I groggily greet, slowly and easily sinking back into my bed, under the covers, like a hermit crab creeping back into its shell.  
  
"Buffy." Angel spits with distaste through the phone. My breath hitches. "You should be up already. You do know I'm throwing a party tonight?" The question is asked, but with no time to reply. "Being the best at your job, I want you to be there looking oh so pretty." I can just picture his smug ass smile. "It starts at seven. I want your tight little body in Tara's club at seven on the dot, or maybe earlier."   
  
The line goes dead.   
  
Somehow my room just dropped fifty or so degrees. I shiver with imaginary chills. Angel called. Angel spoke. Buffy must obey. That is they way it is, and has to be. This makes me pathetic. Connected to a leash. You might even go and say brainwashed. Sad as it sounds, they are all true. I live in tsunami waves of fear. Waiting and ready to do anything and almost everything so that I can dive over to the shore for a moments rest. Only a moment.   
  
I scramble from the bed. The energy that comes with rest, seemingly hidden as I drag my limp body to the bathroom for a shower. Angel gleefully sucks the life out of my young body. Each order. Each party. Each everything he does dumps another spurt of Buffy's soul down his eager throat. And goddamn it, I give my consent by acting out what he demands. I really am pathetic. Such a wimp. I have good reasons, though. Biding my time is all.   
  
Biding my time . . .  
  
I repeat the mantra in my head. But like every morning or . . .er . . . afternoon it never completely replenishes my proverbial cup. Poor cup needs to be filled. It yearns to be filled with self-respect, pride, and an internal degree of contentment. These things are so lost to me now. They are buried in the deep ocean like concealed pirate's treasure. All golden doubloons and sparkling diamonds waiting to be mine. Oh, waiting to be found. So much patience it has. Something that is leaking from me with every moment that I relinquish myself to Angel and his rule.  
  
I have no more patience. Something must be done. Something has to change. I have to utterly destroy this life to rebuild anew. And I have to execute the first step. The very first and essential step to the gradual process of restoring my soul, will be made by me. No more stalling with the wish, and hopeful thoughts in my head that someone else will do it for me. I am fed up. No more bottomless hole of fear. It's time to climb out. Now I will take the responsibility no one else is willing to. I will, without hesitation, without second thoughts, without a defect . . .   
  
. . . kill him. Kill Angel.   
  
With bravery from my thick torrent of hate that has been boiling and escalating for years, I will accomplish this, and with cunning it will go off smoothly. It cannot be that hard to kill Angel and his little band of followers, while making off scot free. Can it?   
  
All right, this will take planning, determination, and all the skills I have ever required. This will be the hardest task in my entire life. Even harder than the first time I had a customer. I visibly flinch at the nauseating thought that conjures memories and feelings that no woman should ever have. That night passed like a school day. It was as if my body was in a prison, but my mind set it astrally free. My body was running on automatic, pure instincts of survival. My mind was just ticking down the seconds till it was over while it flew over meadows and drank tart lemonade.  
  
Tears begin to unite with the translucent water gravitating downward to the spiral that is my drain. If only I could travel with that water. Disappear with a gurgle. I clench my hand around the knob and turn. The water shuts off with an abrupt and silent end. Soon I feel the air with its goose bump inducing chills sweep through the shower curtain. This is not helping any, Buffy. Scrap yourself off all those dingy motel rooms and act as you say you will. Do as you say you will.   
  
Plan.  
  
Don't succumb to tradition and routine anymore. Don't believe in your own lies. Embrace the evil truths and build a bridge out of perdition.   
  
I can do it. I can do it.  
  
After exiting my shower, and spending a grueling half an hour getting ready in the bathroom like a programmed robot; lotion applied, deodorant swiped, hair blown dry, teeth brushed, etc. I emerge. My hair is a mass of waves and curls, twists and turns, giving me the best wild and exotic look I could get. The make up covering my face is ruby lipstick with light rosy eye shadow. Now for clothes. My hands flip through the articles of skank-wear populating my closet until . . . I locate the outfit that will have men drooling in puddles at my dainty feet.  
  
Absently a treacherous thought from the old me forms in my mind and whispers into the empty room:  
  
"Angel will definitely like this."   
  
I discard my towel onto a place instantaneously forgotten. Gaze appreciatively held by the constrictive smoky black leather pants, and old style deep crimson corset with thin satiny bell sleeves the same color of my pants. Yeah, Angel will like this outfit. A brilliant smile on my face as I shimmy into it . . . bras and panties be damned . . . and along with many hops and awkward poses, zip up the tight as fuck pants. The corset is a lot easier to get on. Positioning myself in front of my long mirror, I give a twirl, and another twirl, and yet, another.   
  
Oh so pretty, my ass. I look gorgeous.  
  
Suddenly the world comes tumbling down like a two-year-old's set of building blocks. My earlier comment to myself echoing through this overstuffed brain. Shaky breaths are inhaled. Calm breaths exhaled. I'm Buffy, Buffy, Buffy, Buffy. Not Angel's Buffy. Just Buffy. Or am I Angel's Buffy? Angel's Buffy for life? Kind of like a marriage? To death do us part?   
  
Am I? Can I, break free of this!? Can I, cut his strings and be a puppet no longer?   
  
SHUT UP!  
  
With terrible exertion all my doubts are battered into broken little demons that have ripped out arms, busted kneecaps, and mouths sewn certifiably shut. This brain of mine will not ruin my plan-in-the-making with its pressuring fear mingled with ominous second guesses. Soon, I'll be the genuine Buffy again. The one I was back in High School. No need to worry. No need to stress. I only need to think which will lead to me constructing a plan. A good plan, for my good day.   
  
No one can destroy this in less than a second, but me.   
  
That will not occur.   
  
For now . . . I hope.  
  
Feeling just a tad better and more assertive, I compliment my outfit with some chunky boots before I scurry on into the kitchen. Willow greets me with a grim expression, no glint or suggestion of the brilliance her eyes usually carry. My feet halt in their tracks to the fridge. The small smile on my face as greeting twitches to a fall.  
  
"Has Xander eaten my stash of chocolate cookies you made last week?" I fail at lightening the mood with a witty line . . .  
  
Willow plucks up an apple from the basket and tediously nibbles. "Tara informed me that another one of Angel's parties is tonight." Her eyes stay set on her apple. "She spilled all the juicy details."  
  
I knit my eyebrows together with visible confusion. What could be the big deal? Willow knows he has parties at least once or twice a month, when high paying customers visit, or for a big celebration of some kind. She should be very used to this by now. And as for juicy details, there may be some fresh blood in town, a new rich guy, or guys for the nabbing. If that's what she means then I vow to get to him first. More money in my pocket. Envy of all the other girls. The satisfaction of being the first to try him out. The possibilities . . . the money.  
  
I cautiously reply. "Something important you wanna tell me?"  
  
Her eyes stare up into mine, green churning fury against curious shining hazel. "There's this new guy crashing." She searches my eyes for a reaction. "He's supposed to be all tough guy. Sporting the whole `don't fuck with me' aura. Bad to the bone, sorta deal." Her nail scratches the surface of the apple skin, peeling it back like husked corn, liquid secreting through, down her finger. "Killed plenty in his teen years. And has killed more than a plenty so far in his adult." She continues her search of my eyes . . .What the hell is she looking for? "I know what you are planning to do."  
  
The words are unexpected. They disrupt her whole speech. Swinging the topic to another branch. I falter in my stance. The heels on my boots somehow feeling way to high now. Vertigo overwhelming my senses. Do not look down. Do not look down.   
  
"Buffy, I've seen it in your eyes on the late nights when you come home." My hands flare out to grab on to safety. "Pure hate." The next words pack an emotional punch. "I have expected you to crave this sooner or later. And here it is. The craving that's shuddering through your body, gnawing and chomping away at your thoughts, now more than ever." A silent scream escapes from my inner voice, my eyes divert to the ground, the floor is one long expanse of air, as if I am upon a building taller than the imagination could ever manufacture. "You want his death." She obnoxiously snorts out a question wrapped up in a statement. "Don't we all?"  
  
Falling. Falling. Falling in a spiral to the deep bellow of the truth of the matter. Her eyes. They continue to bore and drill cavernous holes into mine. What she is still searching for . . . she has finally found in my misty eyes.   
  
Undiluted hope.  
  
The silence thickens in wait for my words.  
  
"What's his name?"  
  
Willow produces an understanding grin. "Spike." 


	4. Corruption Cycles On

Corruption Cycles On

  
  


"This could be it." Tara coyly explains. "I know Spike as a person, not his bad boy persona, not his reputation, but as the person he is." Her dainty pale hand, clasps onto mine in a reassuring gesture to a dying one that there is a way to still live. "He will help you . . ." My eyes project my immediate relief into her magnetic cinnamon eyes, " . . . more so for his own reasons, though. That shouldn't matter, as long as Angel . . ." She looks away as the unspoken word strum their cords in each of our minds. 

The word will not leave her mouth, for the party is underway and that tingly fear that people (especially Angel's most trusted people), may accidentally overhear our little meaningful conversation.

We do not want to end up dead so soon.

With watery eyes, I stare at the iridescent curtain of her dirty blond tresses now being used to veil her clashing emotions. Poor Tara. Bribed to uphold Angel's actions, bound by fear to do the duties he requires, but always the understanding, resilient, nurturer, gentle woman unscathed by these things; or is she? All the things Angel puts her through, the drug transactions, weapon transactions, sickening parties he threatens and flashes money in her face her to commit . . . How could anyone be subjected to these things, do these things, without contemplating their own morals and being psychologically dented for life? 

How selfish I have been thinking. Angel taints everyone he touches . . . not just me and my fellow prostitutes.

"Now all I have to do is ask him?" I softly inquire.

She employs a moment to calm her inner self. Gradually, with precision, she once again gazes into my eyes. A beat passes. Then . . .

. . . A dazzling Tara-smile blooms on her face. "Ask and you shall receive."

Since Willow informed me of Spike just two hours ago, we talked it over, the pros, the cons, and the in-betweens. She went on to say how he has a shaky past with our dear ol' Angel. Something about a girl. Drusilla? Yeah, a druggie named Drusilla. 

Isn't it always about a girl? 

She was some dark, mysterious, psycho goth chick that Spike worshiped like some eternal Goddess he thought she was. Hooked on all sorts of illegal substances. I can even begin to go down the list Willow sadly recited, and the things Drusilla did to get these drugs. It made my head spin and tears erupt. At least I get money for what I do. Money that can buy essential things. 

Willow consoled me some before continuing.

She had some kind of power over Spike. Off on jobs he went, to return home as soon as possible to her fucked up side. She was unwilling to give up the dangerous drugs. He was unwilling to give up his equally dangerous job of freelance assassin. 

Then Angel heard of their tragic story. Their story of strong addiction. Their . . . love.

He flung out every type of sneaky characters that he owned to dig up information on them. And to think that was damn suspicious behavior. Once he had all the components to their everything laid out before him as if he was an Angelic king, he did a cat like pounce down upon their crumbling lives. That is when it went from suspicious to fearful.

Drusilla quickly received word from Angel on his high priced drugs. The good stuff, Willow quoted from Angel. Drugs don't even come close to good on my list for me nowadays. Drusilla was one sick bitch and helplessly devoted to her precious drugs, for she met up with Angel in New York without a second glance back at poor uninformed Spike. 

Angel zapped every penny she had. She begged for more. That's when he put her on the streets. Spike came home to merry ol' Britain as usual from a job, to find his beloved gone. 

Gone. 

Not even a note to where she was. He stalked the streets, banging on snitches' doors, knocking heads, and scrambling together clues . . . All to find this broken woman. 

I believe Drusilla and me were not that different. Her reasons were different from mine. But that is where the differences end.

Finally, Spike heard all about Angel and his plotting against his Drusilla and himself, which led to a raving confrontation fueled by Spike's mingled desperation and rage, and Angel's gluttony to see the results of what he created (or in this case, who he screwed over). From what details Willow shared there was bloodshed, un-kind words, and when it all ended Drusilla was dead. 

Angel shot Drusilla square in the forehead.

Bang!

Bulls Eye.

She wandered in searching for her junkie fix. Not heading anyone's warning about the battle coming to a conclusion. In the middle of vicious actions Drusilla entered and caught Angel's radar. His gun was drawn. The curtain forever closed. Spike did not even have time to understand what had just happened. But when he witnessed her dead body falter on its feet, crumble to a heap, and hear Angel's laughter of satisfaction . . . I think he understood then.

And that's where Willow's information wobbles to a crash of bits and pieces. All say he just walked out. Left behind Drusilla's dead form. Face cold. Body rigid. He walked. That is relatively true, Willow said, but I believe that was what he did psychically, mentally- it's a whole other story, sister. I am inclined to believe Willow. Spike most likely said his last words, those famous last words that every character has in books and movies, last words that leave you in awe, ring in your head, and haunt the other character in their days and nights, up in his head- mentally.

So this Spike guy has his own reasons to go against Angel. Whatever. As long as he helps me. 

Willow has done something that I will eternally be grateful even if I die at the hands of Angel because of my betrayal. She's found a potential follower of my new club: Kick Angel's Bony Ass. Two members are better than one. The odds aren't nearly in my favor, but still, it is something. It is something. 

Willow and me did the giggly girly hug. Spoke of the good times rolling in after the bad times will (eventually?) roll out. She made the phone call to Tara and I was off. Exiting the apartment in good spirits--still am--with possibilities fluttering through my brain at a rapid speed. 

With one of those clique bounces in my step. With those sparkles you get in your eyes when you're truly happy about that something that makes your whole face shine with a warm glow.

Oh yeah, happy, happy, joy, joy!

Opportunity has arisen. And I am there, ready to clutch its hand, yank it out of the ground, and make it mine. 

"When is he crashing?" I extract myself from my inner thoughts.

Tara sweetly chuckles. "One could never know when he'll arrive. He likes to make everything a big surprise."

My eyes do an annoyed little roll. Processing this new piece of information, I know what I will be doing for the rest of the party. Waiting. Waiting for Spike's impromptu visit. 

"This is way too suspenseful for my taste." I huff, before slumping back in my chair in great disappointment, allowing my mind to wander once again. 

This party is like every other party Angel has thrown. Huge with an over abundance of decoration. Buffet tables lay out with dishes we all know and love. Drinks overflowing in everyone's cup (alcoholic in majority). Millions of funky tables and sofas with equally funky chairs arranged around the whole club. A certain area dedicated and decked out just for steamy dances. And as usual the music is blaring. This party is in full swing.

Whoosh.

People are prancing around like lambs ready to obliviously be slaughtered. Rich men parade their earnings to half clothed nymphs. The chefs are behind the scenes, whispering death wishes to all the lucky bastards. Co-ed bartenders smoothly working the bar, while essaying to work on nearby ladies and men. Rich women strutting around throwing distasteful glances at the frolicking nymphs or chatting them up, 'cause beware the lesbian customers . . .unless you are lesbian or bisexual, then, well it goes something like, come one, come all . . .

Tara and me took seats just moments ago in this dark little corner table. Out of sight, and, if the old saying is true, out of mind. Getting here was the effortless part. The getting past Angel's honed radar was not. Never underestimate the Xander dubbed Buffster. I tip toed in through the back door and glided along the wall with Tara over here. Stealth Buffy can pull anything off, just not when it comes to Willow . . . 

"Buffster!"

. . . or Xander.

Tara's next words blow out of her mouth in a rushed fury. "Buffy, this is more than suspenseful. This is dangerous, stupid, and the list continues until infinity. There is nothing but luck on your side. If you succeed it will mean so much too so many people." Tara's eyes well up but her voice presses on without breakage. "If you fail-" 

"You gals didn't say hi." Xander giddily says donning a pout, naively cutting Tara's speech off, and lithely plopping down into an extra seat, not even taking heed of the suffocating tension. "I may be thinking you two little ladies are a plotting some evil, evil mischief." He flashes a self-satisfied grin. "Do I have to break out my gun and go Kung Fu style," Awkwardly he trudges on, "just without those fancy karate moves?" 

No one replies. Not a word is released. The tension gets thicker than the Oval Office's walls. Tara's eyes are seemingly transfixed by the swirls that spinning a straw in a glass can produce. Mine are guiltily cast down, which annoyingly leaves them on my cleavage. Nice Buffy boobies . . .

Is that a mole?  
Xander lets his grin fade into a bemused upturn of a side. "Can somebody puh-lease tell me just why," His head over dramatically swivels in Tara's direction, "you're playing twister in a glass with your drink," He turns his attention now on me, "and why you are checking out your own merchandise?"

Tara graciously lifts her head at the sarcastic comment directed towards her, and her musical laughter flutters through the air into our ears. Her steady composure is back in full force. I steer my gaze away, wanting and yearning to be anywhere but here. If he persists or Tara spills these heavy ass beans, then looks to me for confirmation . . . I know in my mingled black and red heart, that lying to Xander will be the undoing of whatever self-respect I am still holding onto. 

Tara's eyes are dim with brain overload, but her mouth is in the most warming smile. Xander relinquishes his sole attention on Tara. He shakes his head from side to side, clicking his tongue in sharp tsks. My stomach nauseously flip-flops. Please, Xander. My throat constricts in a warning that my stomach is in dire need to empty its contents. It never occurred to me in all my talk, mentally and vocally, what I would do about Xander. He definitely cannot ever know, but why not?

Will he notify Angel or anyone else?

Will he stop me by all means?

What will he do?

These are the questions now swimming in my head, creating awfully disturbing scenarios that are making the lurch in my stomach become violent. I have just flung myself and landed ironically back on square one. I can't tell Xander. I can't lie to Xander. So what can I do?

"Okay, that was a very loooong, tense, and uncomfortable silence if I may say. You two got gigantic jitterbugs." He takes a quick amused glance at me before looking back at Tara, not even attentive to my darting eyes and faraway stare. "Who's getting married?" Xander playfully prods, leaning much closer to Tara. "Willow finally popped the grand question?" Tara slyly quirks the side of her mouth in a secretive and inadvertently sexy smirk. "Was she already on her knees, so she just said what the hell, and did it? Come on, you know lesbian activity turns me on faster than Buffy can say--" 

As if my senses are dulled, my brain has burned itself out, and my body is behaving like a fleeing wild animal I escape the shelter of the table to the hypnotic dance floor. The bodies piled on this floor are vibrating to the ferocious beat of the faceless musicians, and absorbing the screeching but velvety sound of the unknown chestnut haired singer.

Tara and Xander gawk at me. Questions personified in their eyes. Their conversation immediately halted by my abrupt departure. The music captures me in its grasp, fondles my soul like a breast, whispers in my ear of past and present, things of which I want to elude, broadens my mind to shove more thoughts inside, places thoughts in bold text to make them more visible, holds me remote and out of my very own grasp.

All of which propels me to dance.


	5. First Dance Misconceptions

First Dance Misconceptions

~Blame the rain

Blame the television

Blame the everything~

  
  


The music has me gyrating like popping fire, flinging my curls madly about, swiveling my hips suggestively, bopping like no tomorrow, like this is the very last day of Buffy Anne Summers' life. Is this what the dying do before they reach that bright light or dark tunnel? Do they do things to the extreme, with such passion, and unimaginable drive? 

  
  


~But it won't send my problems away

I unleashed my morals they're all astray~

  
  


Well, I am dying in proverbial terms. I'm escaping out of old dead, flaking skin, to show to the world, the most alive, shining, and beautiful skin beneath. 

Yeah, I am dying. But I am still living. 

The thought forces a flashback of last night, when I got home, to when Willow confessed the happenings of her dream. You were dying, in an enthralled whisper she declared, as you were living. My movements never falter, as these disturbing recollections seep to the front stage of my mind. 

Coincidence? Or not?

  
  
  
  


~Blame the noise 

Blame the disposition

Blame the everything~

  
  


More questions than answers leave you standing, thinking you have moved. The only thing I really should be utterly focused on is Spike. Not the past, or the present, especially not the future. I don't want to build my hopes up for some blissful future and in the course of eliminating Angel end up with a bullet through the brain; so no, I have to staple most of my dreams, and my number on goal on Spike. 

For if my psychical death does occur in the process, I hopefully will live through Spike, and he will get the job done . . . not with my motives, but with our combined desire.

  
  


~But it won't make me feel less worse

Just a brief solution to this curse~

  
  


He is my freedom incarnate. Anyone can have a goal, but you have to have the means if you hunger to accomplish it. He is my means, my guide to attempting this diabolical plot. I'm ready, Spike. I'm willing, Spike. Now where are you? Grasp my hand in yours and lead me down this forest path full of blocking brambles, wrong turns, and fallen tree trunks; lead me down the treacherous path most traveled to freedom. Come on, already!

A fine sheen of sweat has encased my body. My muscles have a slight ache to them. But this dance I am dancing cannot end at this crucial moment. This dance is somehow vital to the welfare of everything, of all to come. How do I know this? I don't. 

Instinct. Pure instinct.

  
  


~Blame the time 

Blame the proportions

Blame the everything~

  
  


Out of the thick throngs of frolicking people a covert shadow slithers past my view. With all the strobe lights creating a mystifying and murky atmosphere I cannot decipher it. There is a thrilling black flow weaving behind the figure. I whirl around. A subtle beat of sturdy boots. Arms held high, I aggressively toss my head back. A flash of blinding platinum is blurrily seen through the threads of my hair. My eyes scrutinize for another sign of this form. 

No other sight of it to be seen.

"Buffy?" A voice behind me closely inquires into my ear, spraying tickling hot breath, making my name sound like a blooming rose. 

Whoa. Nice British accent. 

  
  


~But it won't fix what is critically broken

The mechanic quit with words unspoken~

  
  


I swivel to face him. My hips are suddenly and firmly seized in his hands. I quirk my eyebrow in a silent question. Is he a customer? Will this be the first man of tonight? He joins my rhythm, brushing us together as we sway in synchronized movements to the spastic song. My hands creep down and place themselves over his; inducing our moves to be more erotic. 

My tone is coy with loads of sugar. "At your service."

"Good to know, pet." He eyes me with brazen hunger, voice sly and humorous. "Thought you'd be all hag, less Britney Spears."

  
  
  
  


~Blame the change

Blame the unresolved 

Blame the everything~

  
  
  
  


I begin to leisurely glide my hands up his leather-clad arms. Hey, might as well get a customer in before Spike gets here. A frank and heavy grind of my pelvis against his, a well-done swipe of my tongue over his lips, a slow shimmy compression of our lithe bodies, and Seduction Buffy is in full mode. This has just gotta be a quickie, though. 

"Glad I proved you entirely wrong." My arms encircle his neck, pivoting his head for a very delightful view down my shirt. 

He dives for my offered breasts, takes a nip, and leaves a liquid trail of sensations up to my neck, where he stops to huskily whisper. "Not that I wouldn't enjoy a very smashing rough and tumble with you kitten, but I am only here on business."

"We can do business." 

  
  
  
  


~Just keep on blaming and blaming and blaming 

Is there really a God in the sky?~

  
  
  
  


Our eyes lock in a way that manufactures the feelings of intense unspoken words that can shatter the mind with a tiny prod, that can promptly reconstruct it with a helping hand, producing the overall effect mutual to-dare I fucking say-a true spiritual connection. I do not recoil but my body winds its self up into a spring. A tigress drawing back in preparation for a deadly leap. Now either that was imagined from years of mistreatment and feeling terribly forlorn or . . . 

A mischievous smirk, too mischievous, it should be labeled diabolically evil, blooms on his features, eliciting him to halt our flowing movements in a sea of motion, and blow out wisps of words. "Guess my name, Buffy."

  
  
  
  


~Just keep on blaming and blaming and blaming 

Is there really a God in the sky?~

  
  
  
  


In our bubble of silence all is frozen . . . Surrounding us moments of life play on and on, but we are stoic by thoughts. Soon everything else has its own trivial world and he and I are vacuumed into our own private nihility. Flashbacks from the tale of Willow's dream assaults my psyche. He stays concrete within my arms, warm and solid with unfulfilled expectations, not fading or insubstantial. 

Here you are, Spike! My lips stutter to a jubilant smile. Here you have come to be the knight in . . . dead cow hide . . . to rescue me.

This is what I have been waiting for, long before I even knew I was waiting for anything.

A trembling hand glides barely centimeters over his face and hair, my eyes tear up with realizations never once yet realized until here, now, this moment. "Silver Panther."

Still coincidence? I have to talk to, Willow.

His face darkens. No reply.

My breathing switches to quick and erratic. I am drowning, drowning, drowning. Another sharp intake equivalent to flailing arms from an unskilled swimmer in a livid ocean. Drowning, drowning, drowning in fear . . . 

Precious seconds tick on. The music rises to a glass shattering height. The singer climbs mountains with her voice, advancing to the last words of her song. And in a flick of my wrist I hold his hand in a iron grip. 

He gazes down at our joined hands, back up to me, down once more, then back up, slack jawed, eyes wide he sternly demands. "How do you know about that?"

Everything has flipped to surreal. Wake up, Buffy. Wake up! Nope. I can't awake because I am awake. I now see things that should never be viewed with a dreamers' eye, with a dreamers' perception, with a dreamers' thoughts while conscious. I have to agree with you now, Poe, you dead whiny fogey, the world we know is a dream within a dream. So many dreams colliding, interweaving, and some one sided like a police department's interrogation rooms.

Spike captures my faraway eyes, and with his other hand he gravely shakes me, while gruffly repeating, "How do you know about that?"

After his last words are released I tug him off the dance floor. Guess I was right. That dance was crucial. Thank you, instincts. 

  
  
  
  


~Blame him, not you?~

  
  
  
  
  
  


Author's Note: *nervously bites lip* Uh, song is written by me. I kinda feel exposed here with my heartfelt lyrics laid out for you all to read . . . but ya know, I'm willing to bear it out there for the cause of this a-pain-in-my-ass story (Okay, not really a pain more like a numb spot) and if it  
sucks, tell me. Thankys. *runs to bed cause right now its 2:54a.m. and I got things to do tomorrow* Enjoy this wacky chapter, the next one, and the next one, and the next one . . . as they slowly come. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Closet Of Publicity

Closet of Publicity

  
  


Spike squeezes my hand asking a multitude of silent questions. I do not look back to see his fury swathed face. I just yank harder on his hand, tramping us through the tipsy dancers, past the crowded tables, past the restrooms, and to- 

He brutally jerks my body into his clutches. My jaw drops open in protest, and his rough hand clamps securely over it. Eyes wide, I spew out incoherent cries of anger through his palm. His grip upon me suddenly transforms into an unbearable taut one with each muffled word I expel. This would be how our first meeting would go, knowing my world record of un-luck. Swerved from sexy and heated to what is turning out to be a maniacal kidnaping . . . without the kid part.

As my attempts to talk and brutal wiggling to release myself turn up totally futile, I obediently and utterly allow him to drag my weary body into a janitor's closet. Ensnared once again, Buffy. Oh, but I have a trick up my sleeveless, barely breathable corset. Yeah, that's just how good I can be. 

The closet is engulfed in thick blackness, which is momentarily blinding my sight. He flips me around so I face him in this cleaner-chemical intoxicated, lingering scent of old mop water, smelly pit of stagnant air. Odd dripping sounds (note: should inform Tara to get that fixed) flow around my ears, along with me and Spike's labored breathing, and a wall of steel shelves are burrowing into the back of my body. Ow-ness. No doubt producing ugly red lines and dents in my flesh. 

I grope my way around; grazing over all there is Spike, more shelves behind him cluttered with a Shop Rite shelf amount of cleaner bottles, folded rags, a wooden mop shaft, and finally what I was presuming I would find- the light switch-which Spike already has his fingers wrapped around.

"Uh uh, darlin'." Spike harshly declares in this literal void where there is only Spike and I. "I do the gentlemanly 'onors."

"Yanking us both in a janitor's closet is not on my list of gentlemanly honors." I spit the words precisely in my best all together born and bred American accent, my exaggerated poke at his British upbringing. "More like an attempt at murder by sharp shelves," I gesture to the shelves making crude lower case l's in my back, "or rape with a kinky sharp shelve fetish. Either way you look at it . . . " My eyes search for his in the dark to glare needle point stakes, but alas it's just to dark. ". . . it files under not of the good."

With an infuriated growl he tugs at the beaded cord, causing it to sway and clang against the naked light bulb rhythmically. Light is back in session. Our eyes adjust to the brightness after a couple of zillion blinks. My knee positions itself under his groin and bam! he gets what he deserves right at the sweet spot.

Spike's eyes comically bulge and a tremendous groan escapes his lips. His hands crazily release me to cup his now-presumably throbbing-package as if to protect it from another onslaught. His groans gradually decline to pathetic whimpers. That strong face is flushed to a baby pink. My smirk donning my mouth is over abundantly flooding with joy. Go, Buff, standing tall for yourself. Women around the world, be proud. 

Triumphant words spring loose. "Rude bastard."

He is now doubled over up against the other shelf. Oh yes, feel the burrowing! Time flies by, my smirk wavering as sweat busts out over his frame, and his whimpers become strained gasps. Did I hit that hard? 

"Oh . . . balls." He rasps.

I take that as the indication he's somewhat lucid again.

"Hey Spikey, let us start anew." I tranquilly bend over him, eyes now encased with honesty instead of mirth. "I feel we got off on the wrong leg." My next words are whispered in kinder tones. "Come on, how about it? Let's forget about that pesky leg and move on with our hands? Legs are faulty, anyway."

Yes, yes, I cave. I need him. And can not lose him to this frivolous escapade. More fear seeps into my thought process like needle to a vein-rapid and dramatic. He has to help me. He has to. He just has to. He can't really focus on this one kneeing in the balls incident forever, resenting me with a truck load of mistrust and distaste. 

Can he? 

Salty tears bombard my eyes at his asshole self for in the first place shoving me in here, triggering me to knee him so hard that he is almost comatose, which places me carefully on the hop scotch box with the word FAILED chalked boldly in the middle. 

I have failed before I have truly begun. 

"Spike?" I plead, "Get up!" I wrench on his arm and lend my support of his weight as he oh so slowly comes to his on two feet again, while striking up my sarcastic voice, sounding a bit shaky by fear, though. "Why did you have to go and drag us in here, anyway? I swear, this is not a good start to a healthy partnership."

"Bugger, did I reasonably deserve that, you twat?" He hoarsely inquires.

Silence grows thick. All I seem to focus on is his gradually steadying breaths. Uh, hmm. That was a tidal wave of a mistake. It probably wiped out my chance . . . My eyes seek his, pleading with him to deduce how sorry I utterly am. He takes one glance at my watery hazel eyes, that are deeply expressing my apology, yanks his head back while releasing a sigh with a roll of his eyes, and whispers in the tiniest voice, almost if he doesn't want me to hear, "Not again . . ."

A jagged breath is drawn, and exhaled just as jaggedly, coaxing the tears to buckle, my eyes fruitfully lock on his, our faces centimeters away. "Promise me you will see this through, through to whatever fated end?" Abruptly, to further his rising puzzlement, I slump into his arm, my head nestling into his shoulder as if I am but a frightened child and he is my real mother with all the cures to my ever aliment I have contracted. "I am so scared, Spike. So mega-like scared that I will be Angel's Buffy for life." A feminine sob of desperation accompanies my next words. "Spike, I am trapped in this cycle labeled my life . . . 

". . . and I hate it down to the S.T.D. checks I make myself get at least once a week, the constant achy-ness that lives between my thighs, and, and, and all the plastic pregnancy tests I have piled in my garbage." The current of my tears amplify to that of a colossal broken dam. "You will help kill this me, Spike? You will help kill this life of mine, too?" I repeatedly sniffle back the ominous wads of snot. "Spike . . ." My voice transports me into a little 5-year-old girl. "I am so scared of losing you, too. So scared that you will abandon this fragile women you have just met back to the dogs . . . and not help one bit."

I swallow before trudging back to my earlier words: 

"Promise me."

He tenderly plucks my face from his shoulder, scrutinizing me with his electric azure eyes, soaking in every word and flipping it over, gazing sideways, cutting them in half, to piece together the exact meanings. My body quakes in regret of my heartfelt, but foolish words. How will he see me now? Some clingy bitch trying to weasel her way out of her wrought in life with baby tears and whiny pleas? 

I surely have failed. 

More tears ensue.

"I promise." He solemnly coos, swiping aside the new tears, head tilted in fierce concentration, and then he coos it again, forcing me to believe my ears weren't lying to stop the waterworks because of a message from my puffy eyes. "I promise."

The ocean of fear from before resides.

"My knight is sexy dead cow hide." I bubbly exclaim, eyes bright with immense satisfaction and comprehension of my willing debt, a wistful smile on my lips, hands cupping his face a little to tightly in the affectionate, but bothersome way old grandmothers do when first seeing you after a few years, and leisurely shaking it.

His hands seek mine that are lying over his cheeks and gently grasps them. "I'm not here to be your knight in," He fiddles with my recent words, "dead sexy cow hide." The words sound unsure and raring to be proven positively wrong.

Hey, I can rise to this bait. Looks tasty enough.

I softly sniffle, the second to last sign of my previous regretful-murderer-confessing-like crying episode, before cheekily stating, "But Bleach Boy, you sure are acting like one." 

"Only 'cause if we beat these odds, and come out not too banjaxed, dead, or worse, it will feel like I'm rescuing you." 

He skids my hands from off his face and coyly interlocks our fingers. Leaning upon me he crushes us together once more, our hands holding comfortably behind me, like a couple of swooning teenagers preparing for their first kiss.

I weakly giggle on behalf of his comments and the other half for the amusement of this wacked up situation. "You are rescuing me, silly."

Could it be that from this short experience with each other we are touched in a place we both thought gone cold and black? I haven't felt so high above my anvil life problems since that one drunken stupor when I compared it to a corpse . . . which doesn't even have a life, let alone problems, unless you count maggots. Enclosed in Spike I am a different Buffy. A Spike's Buffy that suits me beyond terrifically well. 

This Buffy brought forth because of Spike feels as if the world has turned upside down, and night is day, south is north, frowns are smiles, death is life, all is equal, all is right, and specifically me. This me is only Spike's for it has never reared its carefree laughter and dazzling smiles without slight paranoia, suicidal whims, and veins full of depression until here and now. Alone with him I am the way I have yearned to be-strong, independent, cocky, brash without it being duty to the job. Outside of our private world I am aspiring to be what I seem to be accomplishing with Spike at this very moment.

Ironic, mainly. Evilly cruel, mostly. Kind of odd, a little. Scary, non.

"Buffy . . ." He begins out of the serene blue, gulping hard to make his Adam's apple bob, affecting a dreading knot in my stomach. "How do you know 'bout Silver Panther?" His eyes dart to and fro, sliding from one of my eyes to the next, searching, scrounging, sternly anxious. "Did, did Dru ever speak to you, cryptically babbling; and by some bleedin' miracle you frankly understood the chit?" Spike gulps once more. His stance is like he is walking on mental thin ice with cracks that have already been there and is making newer ones unintentionally, while trying to evade all the danger zones. And as if . . . he is conflicted on his own feelings, which are swerving his tone. First he sounds hurting, then mad, then straight back to hurting. "Did she, Buffy?

"Or do you know another way?"

I open my dry mouth to respond in an outraged voice. "I have never even met your brain dead," I fumble a bit on my word flow, knowing I have backed myself in a corner . . . awkwardly I continue, "dead Drusilla, so it was by another way I snagged this info. I have other people to get stuff from. I am not out of the loop. I, I, I am the loop!"

Spike's eyes are boyishly pleading, oceanic in its swirling color, unfazed by my heightened voice and piercing words. "How?"

With the sharp pinching nails of pity slashing into my flesh, bringing forth welts of urge, I bluntly speak in soothing styles. "Tara's girlfriend, my female best friend-Willow-had a horror flick of a dream. Something straight of VaRuka the Vampire Slayer. In this dream there was blood and tears, ensnaring shadows, a villain, and a sleek Silver Panther, the hero of it all.

"And this Silver Panther struck me as you incarnate, just lacking the duds i.e. silver fur. But you have the silver hair, sleek feline grace, same exact role of hero, and something that . . . .that, that screams the Silver Panther to all my senses." I end my lame speech with a closing of the distance of our lips.

Holy cow. I really just did that.

In a split-second he retaliates with equal lunatic devotion. Our mouths are plundered to their watery depths with critical thoroughness, tongues tasting and caressing with positive reactions, eyes closed fiercely to only focus on our senses. He frees my hands, promoting them to squeeze and rub over every piece of his flesh, and vice versa, as if mapping our bodily features. By two minutes later he has me pitching loud moans and grinding along side him. 

Oh, Goddess-whoa, to much time spent with Willow-he is actually responding, knowing my sleazy job, my demanding job. Doesn't he realize that I'm chronically used, a filthy floozy, nothing but a barely tight, overly pawned, overly entered, disgrace of a woman? Spike, can't you realize? Can't you taste some of it in my mouth? The permanent taste of other's cum. Can you feel it with your hands? The engraved scars of other's hands. Can you smell it all around me? The scent of so many other sweaty men. Can you fucking see it with your own to eyes? 

I AM A STUPID WHORE! 

  
  
  
  


Author's Note: I got this chapter down so quick after reading all the reviews for the last one. Damn. Reviews literally speed up the writing process, and not just feed the ego. *hint, hint* ALSO! My attention is now divided between my writing class project, a Dracula short story, and my new BtVS fanfic (non AU called "Now Hero Anon"), so if this one doesn't get updated in the next two weeks, MORE REVIEWS, or me just busy. Hehe. Hope you liked this chapter's ending. I know I did. 


	7. Tip, Tip, Fall

  
  


Tip, Tip, Fall

  
  


"Speak up, kitten. I can't hear you over the roar of your silence." Spike dryly shoots my way, a fretful smile twitching his mouth.

Since I hastily ended our make-out session and our escaping the hell that was the janitor's closet, there is awkward brooding silence on my part, and many ice breaker jibes on his part, that have failed in their purpose. I have not let him within one foot of my body, afraid way past a dubious thought that by his next touch, he will truly realize and understand what I am. He will never know that. He should never. 

'Cause damn, he may leave me. Leave me to that sucking numbing void again. No one to be dependent on, to have a clenching grip upon, no one to show Spike's Buffy anymore . . . the only Buffy that I, I can come to love. It would be back to Buffy's only dependency, which was Buffy. Which worked to a certain degree. I got this far, haven't I?

But after experiencing these fleeting moments with Spike, I don't want to go trudging back to fleeting moments without Spike. 

He trickily shadowed us out the back door I had entered through, and into what he calls a classic car, and what I call scratched, smelly, and decrepit. Black paint smears the-appearing to have never been washed in years-windows . . . I have mild apprehensions that we could easily get in a car crash with these crazed windows, for I can not see a thing through them, and I bet Spike can't see much better than me!

The tires are fine, the paint job on the outside is fine, the door handles . . . have to be jiggled to be opened from the outside, and car exhaust just materializes from the back to float in through the windows and fuse with Spike's cigarette smoke. Hack. Hack. 

Now the inside rivals a dumpster for smell and content.

The heady fragrance of layers upon layers of dried alcohol, stale food, the car exhaust, the faint smell of sex (freaky, I feel right at home), Newport cigarette smoke, and his tantalizing cologne (which is like the only good scent in this whole car) attack my nose. Desolate bottles of a wide selection of alcoholic beverages, empty packages from fast food joints, used up lighters, and sets of his never changing outfit litter the hunk of junk's interior.

Oh . . . my . . . god. 

Is that caked cum on the dashboard?

My body cringes into the seat more. Ew. 

And its on the back of his seat.

Cringes again. Ew.

Splattered on some of the bottles.

Cringes more. Ew.

Have consideration for your passengers, buster. 

I swivel my head to gaze at him. "Do you ever clean your car?"

"No." He flatly replies, puffs his cigarette, and turns the wheel. "Are you volunteering?"

"As if."

"Then clamp your gob."

My eyebrows crinkle, an expression of disbelief marking my face. Wasn't he the one poking and prodding me to speak for the last ten minutes? One minutes he wants me, one minutes he doesn't. Is that a good thing? Yeah, he should want me, 'cause I'm me, with the body and the hair and the eyes and the cute pout. 

They all want me. But he doesn't . . . not anymore. My insides squeeze, tremble, gurgle from that thought. No! They all want me. But he doesn't . . . not anymore. Noooo. They, they all want me.

Whoa. Whoa. Repeating, much? We have to be professional. We have a job to do. So it doesn't matter what anybody wants. What I want from him. What he did, and should still want from me. 

Curling my body into a half-fetal position, I critically survey his stance; knuckles clenching the steering wheel, body lax within the hold of his seat, cigarette sexily dangling, eyes fixated only on the endless black of the night road and its endless paths with endless possibilities. 

What is he thinking? I really wish I had that power for unsure and tense moments like these. His jibes have stopped. The chill of the atmosphere has grown teeth-chattering. Trains of my thoughts chug on then derail, chug on then derail. My breathing is forced to flow normally instead of the desired shallow. 

"Spike," I venture with no idea of my next words, "what does Silver Panther mean, anyway?"

"I said-"

Halting his words with my own, I shriek, "What the hell, Spike? What the hell?" I reconfigure my body to be facing him, eyes squinted in fury, breaths coming out in pants. "First you wanted me to talk, now when I do, you're all grr argh! What do you want from me Spikey? Silence or babble?" I barely pause. "If you dare pick silence this partnership will not work. Silence will get us no where but glued to the square right before square one!" I draw in a shuddering breath. "And you're promise will be instant garbage."

All through my tantrum he remains stoic except for the compression of his jaw, and the tiny ticking of a clear blue vein in his neck. I hit a nerve. Great. Now I slump back into my seat, with arms crossed and face pinched-it creaks a bit. 

"You know, you are one moody whore." He begins with venom-like words; stinging, inflicting, burning, paralyzing. "You're sendin' out crisscrossing signals. My noggin is 'bout to become a mush of grits from your spasmodic tendencies. Make up your mind, sweets." Our eyes lock as he offers me a sober glare of frustration. "And I agree, silence won't work to succeed with our goal. But I wasn't the one that went from the poster girl for a horny teenager, to a random scorned woman, to Behin' the Prostitute, to Silent Bob in staggerin' hot flashes." A long puff from his cancer stick as he turns to glare. "And my promise, " Smoke arrogantly streams from his mouth in toxic grey clouds to suffocate my face, "still stands if you yank that pole from your ass and do somethin' productive with it." Eyes now back on the road. 

My wounded wails permeate the car smothering any other sounds. My salty tears drizzle down my cheeks further botching my make-up. The car swerves. He jerkily pulls over. Our acceptance of each other's presence burns out. Spike re-opens his big fat mouth only to be shushed by my shaky but sure words.

"You have no ri-right." Another hearty wail. "Look at you Spike. You, you lost your girlfriend. Boo-hoo. That was ages ago." I hiccup. "And it was quick. She died-bam. You had your grieving period. Now you are the man you are today. But my suffering is day by day. There is no bam. There is no grieving period. I sit in it. And sit in. Day in. Day out."

A long thoughtful silence.

"Don't cry, love." He scoots over and envelopes me in his arms, becoming a human cradle for one big baby. 

These words of his baffle me. This is the first time he has ever called me love. And I like it. Just a casual word he most likely says all the time, like pet, kitten, and sweets. But it feels as if this word is only for me, meant for my ears and no others, and that it is rare when he says this one with so much flooding emotion latched onto them. So soothing as water to a parched throat. A bath to the chronically dirty.

Here I am enveloped in not just his arms but his-not love, something akin to love, a few notches below, but not love. It is enough, though. Enough that my wails have morphed into murmurs of satisfaction; my tears yummy to my tummy.

How can he go from whip lashing torturer to a nurse for the ill? 

Who knows. Who cares. He is just one big leather clad guy with so many sides. He's not the traditional quarter. Flip it. Heads. Flip it. Tails. This man is so . . . augh . . . complicated. He projects the appearance of a quarter but when you flip him, and flip him, and flip him you get mercurial results. Always varying. Always ever-changing. 

"You're bloody right." He rubs my arms up and down. "I 'ave no inklin' of your type of pain. Not even a minuscule smudge in my record." He exhales a long sigh disturbing the hair on top of my head. "And I admit, I crossed the line there, but Buffy-love, I 'ad my reasons." A glum chuckle. "You are one wishy-washy chit. Turbulent as a tornado. You took my nerves in your bitty fists, caressed, bruised, sparked, stretched 'em to a ball of knots." His voice gets gruff and apologetic. "So I, I, I just 'ad it with the lot of you, right then and there." 

I gently murmur incoherent replies, nuzzling deeper into his chest, muscles relaxing, brain devolving to creamy goo. Mmmm . . . mmm . . . mmm. . . good. Like Cambells soup. Without the soup. Yeah. 

"Ahhh!" 

"Bloody hell!"

"You can't know! You shouldn't know!"

"Get back in the bloody car!"

"Don't get any closer!"

"Calm the bloody down!"

"Not any closer!"

"What the bloody 'appened?!" 

"Just-just stop!"

"Calm down."

"No."

"Come 'ere . . ."

"No."

Spike stands but a million miles away-two yards to be exact, eyes wide and brimming with concern, hand reaching, reaching, groping, coaxing for mine, other hand raking through his peroxide curls, lean body appearing as if apart of the infinite darkness swathing us, enthrallingly vampiric in all plausible features and stance. The car is way back where it was parked. A puny shape on my horizon. 

My feet ache to trot back into those arms; they take a step, and I halt them. 

Cars whiz by on this dimly lit street. Pedestrians are fewer and farther between, some splashed here and there, not giving me and Spike a half-glance as they scamper along with their business. There's L.A for you. Look out for number one only.

He takes a step forward. I take one back. 

Spike's touched me again. He knows what I really am. He knows. He shouldn't. He can't. But he does. All my denials mean diddly squat, for he does, he knows. A stupid whore. Here I am. Not Angel's precious whore. Not Spike's partner. Not Willow and Xander's best friend. 

Just one stupid whore. 

"Again with mood swings." He grounds out, pauses, then slips low and husky. "Buffy . . . come 'ere . . .

"What's wrong?"

My eyes glance behind me, down the grimy sidewalk path, which will inevitably lead home, where I can double over in my bed, get piss drunk beyond moving, puke my woes out upon my sheets, forget everything and anything, but it will last for one night . . . thus returning me to the real world the next day. 

Should I do that? Forget this whole plan thingie and continue this life? No. I shouldn't. But he knows. He fucking knows. Can I continue on this journey with him knowing? Can I . . .? 

With tons of trepidation I jittery inquire, "Spike, are you wigged out by what I am?" 

He takes a step forward. I stand still.

"Quite the contrary, love. I'm intrigued by your everything." He rakishly smirks. 

He begins a liquid walk over to me, graceful with every subtle movement, sure in its pace. My knees wobble with relief. Maybe touching will be okay then. It will be all right. I may be a stupid whore . . . but he accepts that.

"Thank you, Spike." My words are genuine as real diamonds to be bestowed to him.

His hand brushes mine. "Oi, was that all this was about?" Lacing our fingers, he casually swings our joined hands, gently lugging me back to the car with him. "Well it's quite ducky that we got that spit shined clear, blondie." He flashes a know-it-all look my way. "I like you. You hate me. Right dandy."

I tilt my head his angle, face glowing with a crooked smile, and cautiously voice:

"I'll never understand you."

He pulls the edges of his lips up slowly in a sexy smile, beautiful eyes drilling into mine, face absolutely smug. "Part of my charm."

I hastily duck my head, breaking that intimate moment, all to alert of our ongoing flirtations. He's just a partner. Maybe even a friend. Exactly, Buffy. You do not need to further screw up this with your screw up qualities. There's got to be some good qualities you have that can contribute greatly to this . . . other than playful words, sarcasm, tears, violence, and sex. 

I perform a big gulp, suddenly being bombarded by frightening thoughts of my kiss with failure. As I said before, no one can destroy this in less than a second, but me. That thought echoes within the confines of my mind, taunting and foreboding. 

Spike pokes at the silence, unknowingly helping to deter the echo. "That's what Dru used to call me when she gazed at the stars."

My eyebrows crinkle, then iron out. "She liked the outdoors?"

We curve by three tough gangsters. One brazen red-head black female speaking in hushed tones, ". . . with Oz's help . . . take down . . ." Two hooded black males flanking her left and right, listening attentively. All walking briskly; walking with a destination in mind. I cast them a curious look as we pass.

Spike resumes the conversation. "No, she saw the stars through our bedroom."

Our pace is equal. Hands swinging by mutual urge now. 

"Out the window?" 

He cocks glances up at the expanse of night sky, and nostalgically voices. "Our bedroom ceiling."

I am at a loss for words, wracking my head for something bordering on nice, not wanting to damage the mood. "Uh, queer . . ."

"You're tellin' me." He vigorously chuckles, ensnaring me in his laughter. 

We enter the car. He starts up the engine. 

"Where are we going?" I glance over at him as he zooms us away from the curb-resulting in my body smacking the seat-and back into the L.A. streets.

A wicked smile grasps his face. I shudder at its magnitude.

He licks his lips. "To see the Devil's Angels." 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Author's Note: Heya! Yeah, I know, you thought I was dead. Nah. Just this chapter so far is my longest as you might have noticed. And who knows how much longer or shorter the next will be . . . which I have yet to work on, 'cause of the third chapter of Now Hero Anon (READ IT READ IT READ IT) the other fic that I'm working on is taking some time. Hmm. And I know who the Devil's Angels are, but not exactly what part they'll play, or how the meeting will go between Buffy and Spike and them, or how he knows of them. Nothing. Nada. But eh, I'm a writer (proud of it, biotch!) so I'll think of stuff. 

And who thinks Spike was just to yummy in this chapter? Oh, yeah. I like making Spike yummy. Well, 'cause James Marsters is yummy and brings that to Spike and I'm babbling about stuff we already know. So . . . mmm . . . yummy. 

Hope you will review, *offers urging smile* it helps. Wuvs you all! 

P.S. I know this goes against everything I believe! *dramatic sigh* But I may write an anti-Buffy/Spike fic soon to just, just, just *longer dramatic sigh with finger swathed spit tears* to challenge myself. Just a thought . . . What do you all think?


	8. Not Again

Author's Note: Thanks to Buffybot's last comment on the review page of this story (Please, I'm completely dying for an update. I need my fix! Where are you, are you having muse problems? I hope if you do that it comes back soon, because I'm really missing this story.) I have finished this chapter. I just had no ideas. I was stumped. Humph. Still am on some things. But when I read that, I just could suddenly finish this chapter. And I have the beginning of the next done, when they see the Devil's Angels. Thanks, Buffybot. 

  
  


P.S. Sorry it's not beta-ed. My beta reader has not been returning my e-mails. *sighs* I might need a temporary new one until my old one returns, and if she doesn't then I just need a new one. Hope you like this one. Review as always.

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Not Again

  
  


'Cause you make me feel (like a pony)

So good (like a pony)

So good (like a pony)

So good (like a pony)

  
  


"Spike . . ." My voice takes on an ominous tone, arms begin crossing over chest, lip jutting out in a scornful pout.

Rapidly, he deadpans:

"No." 

  
  


Well I feel all right (mony, mony)

So fine (mony, mony)

So fine (mony, mony)

It's all mine (mony, mony) well I feel all right

I said, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

  
  


I glare fiery arrows of the very baleful kind in his direction, words soft but colossally demanding. "Change the station." 

"Sorry, pet. No chance in Satan's fiery hell I'm changing the station on a Billy Idol song."

  
  


(Ride the pony, ride the pony)

(Ride the pony) come on (ride the pony) come on

  
  


He curls that lithe little tongue to touch his top lip all while he sardonically declares his speech. "Oi, learn to deal with it. S'not like you'll be havin' your current occupation much longer, eh? So loosen up a bit. Don't get rattled by the lyrics sexual references. Get all that monstrous tension from your limbs. It'll do ya good."

A tiny, okay, a wide blissful smile erupts on my mouth. I continue my relaxed stare upon Spike's hyper form, as he steers the car to a place unknown to my knowledge, singing obnoxiously loud, bobbing to the music, but yet, I don't mind, I completely trust this leather-clad guy with cute curled bleached locks. So what? If I barely know him? He barely knows me. But we do know each other. Not on the level where I can promptly name his favorite color (black, most likely), or favorite car (1970 Desoto, most likely), or you know his favorite song (mmm, could be Mony, Mony by Billy Idol), but on a different level I have never graced before with another human being . . . and it isn't so bad, not at all.

With a link of our eyes I counter. "The only thing monestrous in this car is your choice of music. He's so 80's. So, like, old. Isn't he even dead, or something?" 

"I take personal offense to that remark." Spike rears back his head, as he turns takes his eyes off the road to convey the most shocked and full of indignation expression to me. "The 80's was more than big hair, tight pants, and Sixteen Candles."

Furtively, I have been inching my way over to his side since the car was started. Now my goal may succeed in being completed. My body wiggles a bit, pauses, wiggles some more. Just a few more inches. And I am starting to have certitude that his right lean, muscular arm is attempting to be covert about its slinking path over my dainty shoulders so it can hold me close, and it isn't all in my imagination. 

Score! I rapidly suck my teeth, right before I inquire in a voice the portrays my skepticism, "Are you serious, Spikey? Come on, the 80's was a time period we all want to forget . . ." A humorous laugh, which is promptly cut short with the very lethal glare he shoots through the corners of his eyes. " . . .well, except you. Spike, you have some issues. I think, you are certifiably stuck. Have you done anything to cure this?" Slyly, my eyes portray my stony disposition. "You have a sickness. Admit it."

Just then, a low growl of jesting reverberates around the car's interior. "Did anyone ask for what you thought? You're blonde for Heaven's sake. You make your hair into ankle biter pigtails and give local blokes blow jobs with convenient handles."

"Bottle." I thickly snap, clearly affronted beyond, beyond, well anything. "Bottle blonde." Then it dawns on me like a prick of a needle, and I turn my whole body to him, eyes squinted, voice just a bit, maybe a tad outraged. "Hey, you're a bottle blonde, too! So you can't say that! Spike!" A smart smack to his mid-section, my hand roughly musses his hair. "Smart ass." Tickle, tickle. He giggle, giggle. "Ass hole." My bare leg somehow innocently ends up over one of his, skirt absently riding up to give a peek, knee applying pressure to the seat area right in front of the intersection of his pants, and I'm half-way in his lap like one big feisty kitten looking for a pet an' cuddle. "Stupid pig. I do not put my hair in two pony tails. I like it when guys lace their fingers . . . and yank."

His eyes are glazing over in that fuzzy aroused sort of way, those jeans are bunching up close at the intersection, one of his arms leeches around my tiny waist, seemingly hungry for close contact, and that pink provocative tongue lunges out to swathe his lips with a thin sheen of saliva, then everything did this oafish crash and burn as the car unintentionally swerved into the other lane and . . . 

BEEP! BEEP!! BEEP!!!

Veracity stumbles from where it was at bay and lands all around me like a table clothed being whipped from under a loaded and prepared dinner table, propelling the silverware and decorative center piece to fly into the air, and descend back into their proper places. 

What the hell was I just doing?

"Bloody fucking hell!" Spike bellows as cranes his head past me to see out the dashboard window, frenetically jerking the wheel, speedily navigating the car back to the right lane, and thanking his lucky stars that we aren't on a highway for it could have been much worse than, " . . . this blasted knife's edge away, we could have found ourselves smack dab in an authentic accident; ruby blood, lurid gore, screeching noise of ripping metal and flesh, right snoopy eyes from inside their cars--bloody hell, like something like a school special on drunk driving, except we ain't drunk, love."

A cold seed twitches and begins to grow at the pit of my stomach, gyrating and flowing into a flower of depression and regret. Oh, damn, damn, damn, damn it all. How can I smooth this one over . . . ?

Spike compresses that arm around me, drawing me closer and more intimate into the welcoming abyss of the inside of his leather duster. Warm gales of his breath disturb the hairs on my head, as I can feel his eyes drilling holes into my skull, tone of voice becoming skittish:

"Buffy? Love, it's all right. Don't do a relapse on me. I'm not your rehab therapist." No response from me, my thoughts are whirling, contorting. "Or maybe I can be, or am turning into one 'ere. Soon I'll be changing you're dirty nappies, or from what I observed a moment ago, you're thong." A pause for a smack and/or laughter from me. Silence. He proceeds on with a whining resilience. "Buffy . . . if its about what just transpired, fine, forgotten. There was no jumping in Spikey-boy's lap. No almost car accident."

My nose scrunches up into a sniffle. More silence. 

"Buffy, not again. Not right after the bloody last time. Don't do this to me. I'm but a man." His delicious British accent trembles, and he whines more and more, concern being displayed more and more, Adam's apple bobbing. "Maybe if I was one of your girly friends with their female coos, words, complete comprehension, infinite knowledge about your monthlies and its PMS side effects, and all your internal tick tocks, I could have a chance at taking this emotional stress that keeps snappin' free from you, and actually, seemingly help you. I'm but a man . . ." He begins stroking my back in that soothing mommy gesture, after a big school yard fight and you have nothing left in you but an over abundance of baby tears and wracking sobs, and no words, and there are really no words needed. 

"I'm sorry, Spike. I feel like letting out a giant eep." The wisps of words erupt from me, hacking the silence into ground beef to make a hamburger of sentences. Deep breath, thus a torrent of an exhale. "You must think I'm such a . . . I would say whore, but I really am a whore. Oh, the tactless ashes of irony. I . . . augh." Pause. "Great, this is a great time for me to do my thing this thing where I can not say how I feel so then our whole things gets ruined and then there isn't a thing and I am babbling so much right now I might just die of no air but--"

He promptly silences me with a clamp of his hand over my mouth, such an erratic reminder of the very first time he did that. I bite the hand, those sky blue eyes bulge with hurt, and his hand is gone before I can fully register. A colorful string of curses are directed at me, at the situation, at everything, marvelous voice making them lovely and terribly uncouth at the same time. My eyes scrounge for glimpses of his as he continues to aspire to drive, pay attention to me, drive, pay attention to me.

I hastily continue on, so soft, nothing wavering. "I'm so sorry for coming on to you, I was joking around, but I wasn't. See, you appear genuine, not faking your concern, and truly give a damn about me. Spike, I'm starting to . . . I know it is so overly, like so really soon . . . but . . . " I leave it lingering, hoping, wishing beyond a doubt that he might just pluck this segment of a thought and finish it for me. You know, be a smart cookie that most of the time he is.

Oh, those words I just uttered are the weighted kind, the ones that feel like putrid vomit when passing through the throat, then feel like 100 ton anvils as they escape your lips, and when that happens, everything starts shining brighter and you want to smile wide, and the world seems a better place, well, you're world seems a better place . . . but then there is one factor you forget until the factor opens its mouth to counter, and that can blow up your world and make it falling fragments of a sudden Armageddon.

Spike opens his mouth, and forms each word, each syllable very languidly as if these words are alien to me. "I un-der-stand." My body slithers into his coat more comfortably, sapping its worth, sharing my own, rubbing our scents together until it makes a whole new scent, something only we can create . . . together. "Fuck." The word is without malice, meant to be perceived as a statement about this mad everything. "Buffy, love . . . you don't even want me to get started on my epic feelings." That warm hand stroking my back, weasels its way to one of mine, linking it securely as if that was how it was always meant to be--woven with mine. "You're goin' to be the soddin' death of me."

"I better be." My bottom pink lip juts out in an arrogant pout. "That's my honor to put you out of your misery."

The rusty car makes a tranquil curve to the right under Spike's control. I flicker my eyes out the smudged and painted window, idly attempting to see where we have gotten to. The sky the color of a goopy splash of black paint that devoured a once white canvas, while tiny droplets of white paint drizzle from a lacquered brush, speckling the sky with rare and distant stars. The buildings under the night sky are smokey, grey smog formed into buildings with candle flames illuminated inside them to populate this section of the city, the daylight outcasts tromping around, coming out to play for all their worth; this is where you would usually find me, among the drug dealers selling their sweets, and punks waging their eccentric wars, and of course my sisters in occupation. 

Spike has drove us into the alley ways of L.A. These places where these types of activities occur are behind and beside every bright street, every rich building, every famous place, sometimes even in the daylight. So, broken down, we really haven't gone anywhere, we could still be back near Miss Kitty Fantastico. 

Isn't L.A. grand?

The silence drenches us as a dunk in the pool would.

"Tell me about your feelings . . . I want to hear, I want to know all about you." My head snuggles comfortably deeper into his person, sighing at his marvelous warmth and spicy scent of alcohol, tobacco, bleach, and something primal, demonic, but yet . . . speckled with angelic salt. "You already no so much about me, Superperoxide. It is, only fair."

He lets out a small guffaw, never ceasing that really nice rhythmic stroking of my hair, back, and arms. And he can not think I'm not heeding those occasional inhalation of my scent, for he sure makes a barely subtle job of wrenching it in, then smoothly exhaling it out. His deft and tantalizingly rough hands, hands that have without a dubious thought, held and utilized more weapons that I can count on my hands, his hands, my feet, and his feet; depositing death on everyone's doorsteps, knocking, and thus running down to watch from a distance the results, or maybe . . . he watches up close and personal. 

Whoa. Whoa. Hop of the thought train, Buffy, things are looking scary.

But no. No, and no. I can not think about this, block this from my mind and continue to feel this way for this cold blooded murderer, this assassin for hire. Yeah. That is exactly what he is. Ruby blood from a thousand others, now cold and dead, swathe his hands to the bones, luridly dripping off his hands right now, even the one that is tenderly stroking me. 

My lithe body spasms, somehow cold all over, despite his heat and the heat of the night seeping in through his half open window.

He just idly and sappily strokes along like I really am one big wild cat tamed only under his loving care, which if I think more of this, is quite true. I freeze. Spike pulls the car into an alley way, empty from what I can tell, and suddenly stops the car, cancels the engine, and gazes at the top of my dirty blonde head.

"You don't want to know anythin' about me, kitten." Voice is choked with some buried sadness that only arises when all else is beyond reach. "Let this little beastie remain the great and blonde enigma, cloaked in the guise of your knight in dead sexy cow hide. My past is flooded with the four b's--bollocks, barmy, bloodshed, and bitterness. A whole mammoth lot of all four ate up my bloody past, and is still eating up my bloody life, bloody fucking picking the stringy bits from their teeth."

So much malice . . . I know the feeling. 

"You think it matters to me?" Of course it does matter. It matters a whole lot. "You think it matters that your past may frighten me?" May frighten? Hell, it most likely will frighten. "All that matters . . ." 

What is all that matters in this jumbled situation? How can I finish this sentence? 

Contemplative pause. Then, the end:

" . . . is that we know each other."

Silence on his part now. A hand cups my chin. Smoothly, he raises my face to his. The gesture very intimate and seductive. Our lips linger so close to the other's. I swipe my tongue over mine, lavishly moistening them, for an abrupt dryness has overcome them. Cynical azure eyes hold the tenacious gaze of lusty hazel. 

"Ah, looky here!" That lazy trademark grin of enigmatical proportions is planted. "My very own bosom buddy then? You want to be my new pal? Get sloshed with me at topless bars? Sit back and watch football on the telly with me, eh?" The airy humorous tone dissipates, and his face is smooth pale marble, dark in its expression and unmistakenly irresistible. "Let's just keep this spick an' span, nice and clean--we swagger in set things up, execute the well-laid plan, Angel's six feet under our dancing toes, revenge acquired, my smashing services no longer needed." 

He gulps. My eyes tear. 

"Love, you do not want to get in over your pretty little head in this. Already I reckon it's gone a bit far." Tense pause. "But you don't want to take that step farther into this private hellhole. There are so many levels in this nightworld that I am a part of, and that your pixie self was never properly introduced to," His voice lowers into a gruff, a very thrilling bedroom tone, "and don't want to be, darlin'." 

His soft lips fight through the air that is the only barrier to mine, closing the void with such deft, and our lips collide harsher and ineffably more wishful and emotional and wanting. I can taste the bittersweet peril beneath the exuberant . . . love; and I kiss back fiercer than before. 

This time when I climb in his lap no thoughts of foreboding enter my mind, no fears, no anything but thoughts of this troubled boy joining in this moment with a troubled girl for a kiss that means more by the second that the other preordained. 

We sever for gasping breaths. Eyes clouded. Bodies thrumming. He has me in a delicate embrace, but it is so strenuous in its hold. I feel as in a bubble. Safe.

In over my head, huh? How about drowned and washing ashore as a plane crash victim in which the crash took place in the electric blue oceans of his eyes? 

"You will tell me."

He licks his top teeth in a way that you can not deny that it's sexy. "I s'ppose I will one day. You being you an' all."

"Are you dead, yet?" I place my tiny hand upon his chest, right above his swiftly beating heart, feeling its thumps against my hand.

"I was, kitten." He puts his rough palms onto of mine; bigger than mine, protective, nimble, and so sensual. "Now, as you can tell, I'm not. Far from that path actually."

I upturn the side of my mouth in a smug smirk. "You don't say?"

"That last kiss was electrifying. You got the right dose to me in that one."

My smirk morphs into a pure smile of a happy child. "Did I?"

Spike sinuously pushes my hand harder on his chest, the rhythmic beating of his stable heart pulsing through my shaking palm and fingertips, beating its way to my own heart. And he has the absolute nerve to ardently declare:

"You make me feel warm and alive . . . when all I have ever felt before was cold and dead."


End file.
